


Nothing So Well As You

by deandratb



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M, but that's not this, fun with much ado about nothing, i should just write the au already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deandratb/pseuds/deandratb
Summary: Prompt fic; Lucien helps Jean prepare for an audition. Set after 2x05.Her slow grin was a warning, but of what, he couldn’t say until she replied. “Alright, Lucien. I’ll read Beatrice for you...but you have to play Benedick.”





	Nothing So Well As You

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous prompt: **"prove it"**. Verbatim dialogue borrowed from Much Ado About Nothing; not mine, don't sue.

Lucien left his office to join Jean in the living room before dinner, and found her studying a book on the couch.

“What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Much Ado About Nothing.” She turned the cover his way before re-opening it. “The church dramatic society is feeling Shakespearean.”

“And you’re auditioning for?”

“Beatrice.”

“Ah.” Was there a polite way to ask if she stood a chance? Lucien wondered. Probably not. 

“Yes, I know,” she said, as though she’d heard him thinking. “But it’s going to be different this time.”

Lucien tucked his tongue firmly in his cheek and joined her on the couch. “Oh? How so?”

“This year is my year,” Jean declared with a determined nod. “I don’t care that Patrick Tyneman is funding the production, as usual--I’m going to give them a flawless audition. They’ll have to cast me as something better than a manservant.”

“So, you hope to overcome the influence of the Tynemans through the power of your performance?”

“Not just hope--I plan to. Beatrice would be the perfect role for me...I’ve always liked her, you know.”

“She’s an excellent heroine,” he agreed. “Lots of fire, with an underlying sadness.” Lucien nodded. “You would be perfect at it.”

Jean blinked. “Thank you. I think.”

“I promise you, I meant it as a compliment. She’s one of Shakespeare’s best leading ladies.”

“Yes, well. I agree.”

“So, when is the audition?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And you’re ready.”

She smiled. “Oh, I’m more than ready. I’m eager, to see Susan Tyneman’s face when she ends up playing the apothecary.”

Her glittering eyes made him smile in return--for a kind soul, she could be awfully fierce when she felt like it. “Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

She shifted away a little. “I’m sorry?”

“Show me your Beatrice. Consider it a dress rehearsal,” he challenged her with a grin.

Oh, he knew her too well, Jean thought. She couldn’t back down, or she’d start to worry that maybe she wasn’t as prepared as she believed...even though it was silly, Lucien asking her to put on a special performance just for him. Well, two could play at that, she decided. 

Her slow grin was a warning, but of what, he couldn’t say until she replied. “Alright, Lucien. I’ll read Beatrice for you...but you have to play Benedick.”

He tapped his fingers on his leg, the only outward sign of his discomfort at the tables being so quickly turned. “Well, I suppose if you insist.”

“Oh, I do. I can’t very well act out both parts, now can I? Somebody has to read him--and Maddie’s not here.”

Things felt a little delicate between them yet, after Richard. Jean might have laughed and agreed when he promised not to give her his blessing ever again...yet Lucien still wasn't sure how he'd made such a mess of what was meant to be a supportive gesture. He was a terrible actor, he knew it, but maybe a bit of lighthearted fun would set things right. 

“Okay, then. I’m game.” He held out his hand for the script. “You have your end memorized, I assume?”

“Of course.” She handed the book over, fingers holding it open to her audition scene. “Here, where we’re the only two left.”

“Let’s see...” Lucien scanned the page until he found the spot. He stood up, projecting his best theater voice. “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”

Jean stayed seated, looking up at him as her eyes began to fill with tears. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”

He had to set aside his own fascination to stay in character; Jean was a vision. “I will not desire that,” he replied, inwardly marveling at the way she was able to hold herself on the verge of crying without spilling over.

“You have no reason; I do it freely.”

Lucien sat, knees touching hers as he aimed his most sympathetic face her way. “Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.”

Jean’s eyes flashed. “Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!”

“Is there any way to show such friendship?”

She sighed. “A very even way, but no such friend.”

“May a man do it?”

Shaking her head, Jean looked away, the first tear falling. “It is a man's office, but not yours."

The sense of wounded pride came more easily to him than perhaps it should. Glancing at his next line, Lucien took her hand. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?”

She sniffled, staring at their joined hands. “As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing.” She removed her hand from his. “I am sorry for my cousin.”

Lucien gripped her forearm. “By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.”

“Do not swear, and eat it.”

He smiled. “I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.”

Jean’s eyes widened. “Will you not eat your word?”

“With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.”

“Why, then, God forgive me!”

“What offence, sweet Beatrice?”

She laid her fingers lightly against his cheek. “You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.”

“And do it with all thy heart.” Lucien's smile was joyful sunlight.

“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”

He took her hands again. “Come, bid me do any thing for thee.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Kill Claudio.”

Standing, Lucien shook his head vehemently. “Ha! not for the wide world.” 

“You kill me to deny it.” Jean dropped his hands. “Farewell.”

“Tarry, sweet Beatrice.”

She looked beyond him, shaking her head. “I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.” Her whole body was trembling, Lucien realized.

“Beatrice--”

Jean stood up, stepping back from him. “In faith, I will go.”

He reached out to stop her. “We'll be friends first.”

Her curls caught the light as she tossed her head back. “You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.”

“Is Claudio thine enemy?”

“Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman?”

Jean shoved Lucien back when he reached for her again. “O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour, --O God, that I were a man!” She clenched her fists against her skirt, vibrating with fury. “I would eat his heart in the market-place.”

Her blazing eyes had bewitched him. Lucien forgot to read his next line until Jean broke character, her arched brow signaling for him to catch up. 

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Hear me, Beatrice,--”

“Talk with a man out at a window!” She exclaimed, sliding back into the role without pause. “A proper saying!”

“Nay, but, Beatrice,--”

“Sweet Hero!” Jean returned to her seat on the couch. “She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.”

He followed her, standing back rather than sitting. “Beat--” 

“Princes and counties!” She cut him off. “Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake!” 

Tears slipped down her cheeks without restraint now. 

“But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.”

Lucien clutched her hand with his, feeling Benedick’s desperation to be believed as though it were his own. “Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.”

She frowned. “Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.”

“Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?”

“Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.”

“Enough, I am engaged; I will challenge him,” Lucien declared, dropping down to sit next to her. “I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you.”

Feeling suddenly nervous, he lifted her hand, trying not to dwell on the way it felt--callouses from years of hard work contrasting with the smoothness of her skin.

Lucien pressed his lips to the back of her hand, his gaze meeting hers.

Her eyes were wide once again, this time sincerely, as his mouth touched her skin. When was the last time a man had kissed her in such an old-fashioned, even romantic, way? Had anyone? 

“By this hand,” Lucien said quietly, eyes still locked on hers, “Claudio shall render me a dear account.” His voice was rough, no longer his best attempt at a dramatic accent. 

There was no reason to continue holding her hand, and yet he was. He couldn’t bear to stop, not while she was watching him with those soft, warm eyes, Beatrice’s anger and grief forgotten. 

“As you hear of me, so think of me.” He stroked his fingers over hers, attempting to soothe even as he held her in place. 

When Jean broke eye contact, he released her, realizing how foolish he must seem. He looked down at the script. “Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.” 

“Right.” Jean smoothed a hand over her hair, fingers shaking a little. “So, what did you think?”

“You’re brilliant,” he told her, sincerely. “Bravo.”

“Better than Susan Tyneman?”

“Miles beyond her.” Grinning, Lucien hoped to shift them back onto familiar ground. “What about me?”

“You were fine,” Jean said with a solemn face. Then she giggled, unable to hold it. “Though...why were you Scottish?”

“I was English,” he argued. “Like Shakespeare.”

He hadn't sounded very English to her, but Jean pressed on. “You studied Shakespeare in school, didn’t you? You do know he didn’t set every play in Britain.”

“Of course.” He smiled. “Artistic license.”

"If you say so."

"You know, Jean," he said, happy to deflect further critique of his performance, "you really make an excellent Beatrice."

"Thank you, Lucien. Now, hopefully the director will agree with you."

Lucien had a sudden memory of Jean standing with a rather dejected man, and was irrationally glad that one of the women of the church had taken over running the plays. He had no right to feel territorial, and yet...

"Jean?"

"Yes, Lucien?"

"If you need to rehearse...when you get the part, that is...I could play Benedick again."

Jean flushed a little. Of course it would be a terrible idea, she told herself. Playing with fire. 

That was what her connection to Lucien was, and she knew it. He was still hurting over the loss of his wife, and she was still Christopher's widow...no matter where her mind might wander late at night, remembering the casual way he rested his hand on her back or shoulder, the way he was always, always touching her. The way he didn't even know he was driving her crazy, just by being friendly.

She had gotten so used to a life without affection over the last few years that the tactile doctor was a permanent shock to her system; like the zap of feet scuffing carpet, a buzzing tingle running over her skin. But where static electricity only mussed her hair, Lucien's cheerful brushes set her nerve endings alight. 

They reminded her that she was alive.

"You know," she told him, ignoring the nagging warning in her head, "I'd like that. How about tomorrow night?"

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Much Ado About Nothing_ by William Shakespeare.


End file.
